New Strategies
by Jetainia
Summary: From Transfiguration essays to going over Quidditch strategies, Marcus is happy to help.


**Forum Block  
**Stacked With: MC4A (Shipping War; StL; FR); Hogwarts  
Individual Challenges: Short Jog; Yellow Ribbon; Yellow Ribbon Redux; Gryffindor MC; Slytherin MC; Golden Times; Flags & Ribbons (x2); Old Shoes (Y); Shipmas; Trope it Up A (Y); Themes & Things A (Y)  
Representations: Oliver Wood/Marcus Flint  
Tertiary Bonus Challenges: Satisfaction  
Word count: 1,000

* * *

The table, like many others in the library, was covered in parchment and books. Quills that had stopped working just enough to be annoying were strewn over the parchment dripping the last vestiges of ink onto the sheets below them. Another quill hovered over a piece of parchment covered in scribbles as the bearer read from the page of the book closest once more.

When he finally felt like he understood it, Oliver put the quill to parchment, cursed when he realised it had no ink, dipped it, and then added to the already present scribbles. To anyone else, the scribbles would be illegible and even to Oliver, they were difficult to read; he'd make a neater copy later. For now, he just needed to find the information and make his brain accept it.

As he stared at the notes in front of him, he noticed a discrepancy and groaned. Uncaring about the quill he was still holding, Oliver pushed his hands through his hair and stared at the parchment in front of him with despair. _Why_ had he decided to write his Transfiguration assignment on changing non-magical items to magical items?

Professor McGonagall had suggested they pick something they enjoyed and Oliver's mind had immediately jumped to Quidditch—no matter how much stress it caused him, it still held a special place in his heart. Quidditch had then led to broomsticks, which led to him wondering if it was possible to transfigure something into a broomstick capable of flight and now here he was: stuck in the library trying to make sense of theories created by people who understood the source material far better than he did—or they pretended to so well that everyone else accepted their theories as fact.

He rubbed his hands over his head furiously as he glared at the most recent discrepancy. Apparently one could both transfigure a normal object into a magical object of the same thing _and_ could not transfigure anything to have magical properties due to the layering of magic that was required to create the magical object in the first place.

"Planning a new strategy, Wood?" asked a voice and Oliver jumped at the sound.

He looked up, his hands slipping from his hair to drag down his cheeks, and saw Marcus Flint raising an eyebrow at him. "Yes, Flint," he responded bitingly. "I'm planning on having my team transfigure their own brooms instead of letting them use the ones they already have for the exact purpose of playing Quidditch."

Flint snorted. "Thought so. You might want to tell them about Hella's work on transferring magic through transfiguration. See you on the pitch."

Oliver stared after the Slytherin as he walked away, his tired brain trying to work out what had just happened. "Hella…" he repeated softly to himself. Then he sat up straight as he realised that Hella's works might actually be able to help sort out his current problem.

He scrambled for a book on the table that he had previously put aside as useless and started flipping through it until he reached the chapter detailing Rosalind Hella's research. He grabbed a quill from the table—his previous one still resting in his hair from when he had run his hands through it—and started scribbling once again.

The quill paused in its movements as Oliver suddenly wondered why Flint had helped him, it wasn't like the move would be beneficial to Flint in any way. Helping Oliver with his essay meant that Oliver would have more time to practice and get his team working even better than they already did. It made no sense.

Oliver glanced at the messy table that held his essay and then in the direction Flint had gone. Decision made, he hurriedly cast a few spells to protect his work, bundled it all carelessly into his bag, and then sprinted out of the library. He paused at the door, looking around until he spotted the familiar stocky figure of Flint further down the hall.

"Flint!" he yelled, causing Flint to stop and turn around.

"Wood." Flint's voice was neutral and his arms crossed as he watched Oliver approach.

Oliver halted in front of him and fidgeted with the strap of his book bag slightly. Now that he was here, his mad dash out of the library felt like the most idiotic and Gryffindor thing he could have done. "Why?" he asked eventually. "Why help me?"

Flint scowled. "What's it to you?"

"What's it—are you kidding? We're from rival Houses and you're not known for helping people even from your own House! Why suddenly decide to help _me_?" Oliver's arms were flying everywhere as he tried to explain. He needed to _understand_.

"You looked like you needed some help." Flint shrugged, like it was no big deal he had helped a Gryffindor. "That's all."

Oliver quieted, his hands returning to his bag strap. "Oh. That's… Right."

Flint sighed and reached up to Oliver's hair slowly enough that he could move away if he wanted. The hand came away with a quill, which the Slytherin then handed to Oliver. "Get back to work, it's no fun beating you if you aren't giving your best on the pitch."

He walked away, leaving Oliver staring after him twirling a quill in his hands. He smiled slightly; maybe Marcus Flint wasn't as bad as everyone assumed he was. Oliver tucked the quill behind his ear and returned to the library, shying away from Madam Pince's unimpressed look as he made his way back to the table that was still covered in library books.

* * *

"New strategy?" Marcus asked as he sat down next to Oliver.

Oliver shook his head and sighed as he accepted the mug of tea Marcus pushed closer to him. "Old. Cap wants us to study it for things we can adopt into our own."

"Want help?"

"Please." Oliver shoved the parchment over and leaned against his husband as the other man looked over the scribbles, sipping the tea gratefully.


End file.
